


Multipairing Drabbles II

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Ballet, Banter, Bickering, Chivalry, Conspiracy, Cunnilingus, Drabble Collection, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Kingsguard Jon Snow, Love Confessions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mentioned Rhaegar/Elia, Minor Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Murder, Oberyn Martell Lives, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Rescue, Revenge, Romance, Scandal, Stockings, Suicide Attempt, Trains, bedwarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-07-28 03:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16233311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: A second series of standalone multipairing ASoIaF drabbles:Ch 1:A journey interrupted-Petyr/Sansa, 1950s AU, conspiracy, revenge.Ch 2:A visitor by night-Elia/Arthur, canon-divergent AU, rescue.Ch 3:Passion-Jon/Sansa, modern AU, ballet, banter, first time.Ch 4:A Revelation-Jon/Daenerys, Regency AU, forbidden love, romance.Ch 5:The Queen and her Knight-Elia/Jon, canon divergent au, chivalry, adultery.Ch 6:A killer and a thief-Oberyn/Sansa, canon divergent au, murder, rescue.Ch 7:The King and his man-Jon/Satin, canon divergent au, bedwarming.Ch 8:A chance meeting-Stannis/Daenerys, modern au, banter, meet-cute.Ch 9:A man and his bodyguard-Jaime/Brienne, modern au, banter, love confessions.Ch 10:An outlaw and his prize-Jon/Sansa, Western au, rescue, bickering.





	1. A journey interrupted (Petyr/Sansa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this was borrowed from the opening of Ku'damm 56.
> 
> Tags for this drabble include: 1950s AU, suicide attempt, stockings, rescue, conspiracy, revenge.

 

 

She is in the gap between train carriages, far at the other end of the train from the Lannisters in their private carriage, from Joffrey.

The floor underneath her is rocking violently, the wind from the open door whose handle she grasps in a cold hand buffets her hair and draws tears from her eyes, but her face is frozen still, her heart is beating strangely slow now that she’s decided, now that she’s resolute.

She cannot even feel the bruises on her arms from her fiancé's cruel grip, nor the ache in her back from being made to sleep on the floor these past few nights.

As she closes her eyes, the dizzy landscape speeding past is replaced by the list she saw Cersei writing this morning, the list of other suitors for Joffrey. Sansa is to be discarded once the train reaches King’s Landing but not let go, she is not so naive to think that. No, they will find another suitor for her soon enough or, worse, keep her on like a servant, a mistress for Joffrey’s cruel lusts. It has been her betrothal that has saved her from being raped so far, the church being keen to have a virgin bride for the crown prince, but now he will have free reign.

And thus the open door before her, the train tracks rushing underneath, and thus her decision.

Sansa is not sure she believes in God or heaven anymore but if he and it are true she hopes she might see her parents again, and her siblings if they are there too.

She opens her eyes, feels the wind whip across her face as the train enters a dark tunnel and then she pushes herself forward—

She’s pulled back with a jerk that makes her cry out and then the door is slammed shut and she’s pressed gently against the wall beside it.

“There now,” the man who stopped her from jumping says in a mild voice. “You almost fell, darling.”

She recognises him, his expensive suit and trilby, his neat moustache and piercing eyes, but she cannot remember his name. She cannot remember anything, her mind is a white hum.

He looks down and clucks his tongue and kneels at her feet. Her right stocking has fallen around her ankle. The girl she used to be would be horrified at appearing so slovenly, the girl she is now does not care.

She shivers when his hands touch her ankle, when he picks up her stocking and slides it up, under her sensible skirt, up above her knee and up her thigh, the cool slide of his careful fingers bringing a flush to her cold cheeks, a small gasp to her throat, as he clips her stocking back into her belt with nimble fingers, knuckles stroking her skin, eyes fixed on hers and small smile playing at his lips.

He tugs her skirt back down and stands up, passing her a handkerchief from his pocket that she holds in a weak grip before he takes it from her and dabs around her eyes. “We’ll soon neaten you up,” he murmurs.

“Mr Baelish, what you saw—” she says, finally remembering the name of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, finally remembering herself.

“You were after some fresh air, hmm,” he murmurs, lifting her chin with his finger, “for the atmosphere in the royal carriage is awfully close, is it not. But never you fear, my dear, for I have heard tell that you will not have to breathe in such a fug for very long now, that you shall not remain within the Lannisters' sticky grasp beyond the week.”

“What do you mean?” she asks breathlessly. Her hands are shaking now, her knees feel weak, both from the after-effects of her almost-jump and his startling words.

He strokes his hand down her arm as if he is gentling an animal. “It is not the right place for such a conversation, Miss Stark, but I assure you that I speak the truth. I would urge you,” he says, “not to do anything hasty yet, hmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows as her cheeks heat with shame. “Besides,” he adds, leaning close enough that she can smell the mint of his breath, feel the shivery slide of his cheek against her own, “why take your own life when you can take theirs instead?”

He steps back, and the momentary fire in his expression is replaced by something more polite and genial. “Do you understand?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr. Baelish,” she says with a nod, though her mind is whirling with thoughts and questions.

“Good,” he says and his eyes run down her body again as if checking her appearance and she feels an answering heat at the place where his hand smoothed up her thigh. “They said that you were a mirror of Cat,” he adds, his words so quiet underneath the noise of the train that she is now the one to lean forward to hear, “but you are far more beautiful, my dear,” he says and runs a knuckle down her cheek as her eyes flutter, and then he steps away from her, tugging down his waistcoat and holding out his arm. “Shall we?” he says, and she knows that this question hides another underneath, that by taking his arm she is agreeing to far more than simply being escorted back along the train.

“We shall,” she says, resolute, her voice barely quivering now.

“Good girl,” he whispers and she feels her stomach warm at his words and then they are moving through the train back to the Lannisters, and toward some strange glittering future that she had not thought to dream.

 _Revenge_ , the word lies unspoken on her tongue and warms her gullet, puts a spring in her step. To think of it!

"We shall speak again, and very soon," he murmurs as they reach their carriage, before opening the door with a deferential tilt of his head.

"Thank you, Mr Baelish," she replies and glides to her seat beside Cersei, smiling placidly as the woman insults her unkempt hair.

And when she glances across the train towards her unlikely saviour, who is speaking of some serious matter with the politician next to him, he winks at her and then blinks as if he has only caught something in his eye.

 _Revenge_ , she thinks, as she retrieves her embroidery, and with each neat stitch she makes she thinks of her needle like a dagger stabbing Joffrey in all his soft parts.

 

 


	2. A visitor by night (Elia/Arthur)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this drabble include: canon-divergent AU, rescue, chivalry.

 

 

Elia's handmaiden informs her as she helps her into her nightgown that Ser Arthur is lately returned to the Red Keep.

Ser Arthur, Elia thinks, who should surely be by her husband's side as he makes for war in the Riverlands; Ser Arthur, who had not returned from Dorne when Rhaegar did a moon ago.

She dismisses her handmaiden and, after checking that her babes are slumbering peacefully in the next room with their nurses dozing on chairs nearby, she takes a seat by the window of her room next to the single candle she lights, tugging a heavy Dornish shawl around her shoulders that still has a lingering smell of desert winds in its threads.

She does not need to wait an hour until a dark figure slides noiselessly into her room, having slipped past the guards.

"Ser Arthur," she says and he halts as if he is surprised to see her awake. She scoffs under her breath.

"My princess," he says, drawing near and dropping to his knee.

He is not wearing his Kingsguard clothes - because the golden cloak would be too inconspicuous when sneaking around, or for some other reason? The plain jerkin he wears sits awkwardly on his shoulders as if it is heavier than it appears, as if it means something.

"What have you done?" she whispers suddenly and lifts the candle so she can see his face more clearly.

He stands and swallows, looking chastened, looking like the boy who was her childhood playmate on his father's visits to Sunspear. And then his face hardens. "It is not what I have done, but what your husband has done," he says bitterly.

All have now heard that Rhaegar has stolen away the Stark girl, but no one has told _Elia_ anything, she does not know anything for true.

Her shoulders pull back and she breathes in deep, awaiting the next blow—

"She is with child," he says, "Rhaegar's whore—"

"Arthur—"

"Forgive me, I should not have—but she is only a _child_ , Elia, taken in by his talk of prophecies and magic. He has put her in a tower, and we are supposed to guard her, both from others and from herself. It's barbaric," he spits out, "and I have sent a raven north to the Stark camp to tell them so they may save her. Elia," he says breathlessly, reaching for her hand. She jumps at the touch, only because it has been so long since any but her children held her hand, "You must know that Rhaegar will lose."

"No," she shakes her head.

"I have heard reports from men I trust, military men. My princess," he says kindly, as if she is only a child, "he will lose."

"Shut up," she hisses. "Why are you even here, just to bring me news to hurt me?" she stands and puts her back to him but he places his hands on her shoulders, his warm hands, the hands that used to take hers when they danced at humid feasts in Dorne, the stars wheeling above them, the drums thundering like their heartbeats.

"I've come to save you," he whispers, his voice glancing across the back of her neck as she shuts her eyes. "And your children. To take you away from here."

"To take me away," she repeats without emotion. How she has longed for that these past years, in the desperate hours when she lay abed bleeding out lost children, or quaking under Aerys' anger at court. As if she was a girl in a song looking for a saviour to carry her down from her locked tower.

"Yes," he says, and spins her. His eyes are glittering now with urgency, his mouth is tight. "Tonight—" he says.

"Tonight," she scoffs but her voice sounds small, her heart is racing as if she has already started to flee, as if the journey has already begun.

"I have a boat that will take us to Starfall."

She closes her eyes, remembers visits to the Dayne's, remembers meals on the warm balconies and the way the sea breezes whipped the curtains into dancing shapes.

"Starfall," she repeats, her voice dreamy like a girl's.

"Yes, Elia," he says softly, taking her face in his hands.

"This is madness," she whispers.

"Come away with me," he says, "I will keep you and your babes safe, I swear it." He drops to his knee again and she teeters in place without him to hold her up and leans her hands on his broad shoulders. "I swear it, Elia," he says.

"You swore to serve my husband, your prince," she says, fingers reaching for a cloak he no longer wears.

"I take it back," he says, the words of a child who has made the wrong bet at dice. "I repudiate it," he says, his voice now one of a man. "I cast him aside for you."

"You swear it?"

"By all the gods, by my ancestors and yours, by the demons of the deep sands and the spirits of the seas," he says, reminding her of the songs her nurse used to sing to them when they were too old for songs, "by the dead and the living," he continues fiercely and then reaches for his side, "by my sword," he says, holding out Dawn, "I swear I shall take you and your babes from here, and keep you safe."

She bends forward to kiss his forehead, breathes in the scent of Dorne he brings with him, the smell of home.

"Gather what you can carry, only that," he says gruffly, getting to his feet. "We shall take the tunnels out of the city."

  _Mother, Maiden, Crone_ , Elia prays silently as she wakes her children, telling the nurses that she should like to have them in her bed tonight, _Father, Smith, Warrior, Stranger_.

 _Home_ , she thinks but an hour later as they emerge from the tunnels together and race through darkened pathways to the shore, to the small boat that looms out of the night before them.

"Home," Arthur whispers back, as if he has heard her thoughts and squeezes her hand tightly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this drabble, I have a longer story about Arthur saving Elia from King's Landing here: [a liar, a thief, a sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15363378)


	3. Passion (Jon/Sansa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this drabble include: modern AU, ballet, banter, first time, cunnilingus.

 

 

Sansa loves to dance ballet, to perform each night, she imagines every member of the company does – for why else would they do it? – every member, that is, except for her sullen new partner, Jon.

She has never seen someone cross the floor with such hatred, pirouette like he loathes the music cue, fling himself into the air in front of the audience as if his body is saying _fuck you_.

You don't get involved with a man like that, she thinks, as he lowers her from the lifts each night, firm hands on her waist and dark eyes fixed on hers, you shouldn't let his bitterness become yours.

Willas was her last partner - her Romeo, her Prince Charming, her Hilarion, her Solor - but after he was injured the company brought in Jon for her, not Jaime Lannister like she had wished, not even Theon Greyjoy who would have been just about acceptable. No, they brought in Jon Snow, he of the brooding looks, he of the difficult moods, he of "the raw sensuality the company has lacked in recent years," the frenzied news reports had announced.

 _Raw sensuality_ , Sansa had scoffed, when a man with messy hair, slovenly black clothes, and nerdy glasses, tramped into the room that first day of rehearsals, looking like he wished he was anywhere but here.

But she ate her words not half an hour later when they were paired up, when his warm hands were on her hips, when he was staring at her like he was ravenous and she was sliding down his front and then dipping back lower than she should have, as if she could better hide the flush from her cheeks.

He had looked knowingly at her when they finished their piece, a smirk on his lips that made her hate him even more.

 

 _You know, you don't look happy when you dance, you don't look like you enjoy it_ , she mutters one night as they wait for the second act to begin.

In the interval she had been forced to furtively wank herself off with a hand shoved down her tights, with her back to her dressing-room door and her tutu flipped up and scratching her face, because of the way his hands had made her feel in the first act, because of how her blood burned.

 _It's a Byronic role_ , he says in a flat voice, mocking her.

 _You know what I mean_ , she says and then winces as she stretches out her foot, having landed awkwardly three minutes in tonight, with no one to blame but herself for getting distracted by the sight of Petyr in the audience; Petyr who keeps trying to get her to have dinner with him, Petyr who says he'll buy her a flat so she can move out of her shitty digs with the damp that's giving her a cough; Petyr who says he'll help her with the debts her family left her when they died in the accident five years ago.

 _Here, princess_ , Jon says with an irritated noise, using the nickname she loathes, and he kneels down, putting a warm hand around her ankle and stretching it expertly. _You work yourself too hard, you strain yourself_ , he admonishes, looking up at her, his dark eyes darker in the backstage gloom, as the murmur of people filling their seats drifts back through the velvet curtain.

 _It was an accident_ , she says, her breath catching as his hand moves to her tight calf next, digging in his knuckles and sparking spots of sore pleasure.

 _I don't enjoy dancing_ , he admits, as the one-minute call comes, as the lights flicker, and the company rushes to their places, _but it's what I'm good at,_ he shrugs and stands up, drawing his shoulders back, looking like every brooding hero of every ballet she dreamed of as a child, his full lips almost in a pout.

He glances across at her, as if he knows her salacious thoughts and smirks. He leans closer, his lips brush her ear. _I don't enjoy dancing, but I do with you_ , he says, his voice simple and honest, his words filling her body with heat, making her ache.

 _Places!_ a voice hisses from behind them, and she hurries out to the stage with him following lazily behind her, and the spark of irritation she feels at his usual lackadaisical movements only fans the flames further.

 _Let's go for a drink at mine tonight_ , he says as she drapes herself over his body artfully, as he sets his feet and clasps a tender hand around her back. He smells of sweat and chalk and stagepaint and she's so angry with him for doing this now when they still have two acts to go.

 _Fuck you_ , she whispers heatedly, as the lights go up.

 _Tonight, princess_ , he says and she can hear his smirk, and then the soaring notes of the violins begin and she feels her body fill with exhilaration, the breathless anticipation of the audience pour her lungs, and then she leaps and spins, the world a dizzying blur.

 

Later, she's almost en pointe in his narrow kitchen as she balances against the countertop and he kneels and eats her out as if he's starving for her, his hands pulling her hips against his face, the muscles in his back flexing under her own hands and then, when she's come twice and is whimpering, he pulls back, lips bruised and ever-smirking.

 _You're good at that_ , she says dazedly.

 _I know_ , he says, and then hoists her up and staggers through to his bedroom, _and I enjoy it too_.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes and then he drops her on his bed and crawls up over her and she doesn't get a chance to mock him because his mouth is now on hers and her nails are digging into his firm backside and she's widening her thighs for him to fit between. _Please_ , she finds herself begging.

 _You're alright, princess_ , he says and then grunts as he enters her and swears, dropping his head as he begins to thrust, and she pushes her hand against the headboard so she doesn't knock her head and bites her lip on more whimpers at the glorious stretch of him.

If he's cocky tomorrow, if he mocks her for the noises she makes, she honestly doesn't give a shit, it'll have been worth it, she thinks breathlessly.

But, as it turns out, it's her that does the mocking, of him - of his morning bedhead and of how remarkably grumpy he is before he has his coffee, at how he looks like a sullen little boy as he waits for the kettle to boil and scowls as she gives in and does a happy pirouette in the hall outside the kitchen.

 

 


	4. A Revelation (Jon/Daenerys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: Regency AU, Aunt/Nephew relationship, romance, scandal.

 

 

“And you’ve met your aunt, of course,” the man with the thinning hair whose name Jon forgets says, as he steers him by the shoulder through the heaving room of the ball his father has organised on his behalf, to introduce his son to the ton now that it has been announced that Jon _Targaryen_ is miraculously a bastard no longer.

“My aunt—” Jon says dizzily, thinking of all the guests he has met this evening, their overwhelming attentions, their eagerness for his favour, and how not half an hour ago he fled, overwhelmed, to the Orangery for some quiet and happened to chance upon a remarkable woman—

“Yes,” the man says, halting Jon in front of the very same woman who had been in the Orangery, the one with whom he had had such a luminous conversation, a woman so beautiful, so singular in her elegance and passion, even from such a brief conversation, that he had been determined to discover whether or not she was yet betrothed.

“Pardon?” Jon says, his mind utterly unable to grasp the situation before him.

“Your aunt,” the man repeats, with a pat of his hand, “Lady Daenerys, I spied you two getting along handsomely in the Orangery.”

“The Orangery, yes,” Jon says faintly, as the enchantress before him, as his _aunt_ Daenerys, smiles shyly, perhaps a little ruefully, and the man who has brought him such knowledge as to dash all his hopes disappears off into the crowd.

“Forgive me, nephew, for not introducing myself properly upon our first meeting,” she says softly.

“The fault is mine, my lady” he says, his throat dry, his fist clenched by his side in some raw shock of disbelief, of sorrow.

The poets spoke of love at first sight but he had thought them fools until tonight. The poets spoke of the agonies of lost love and it is truly _agony_ he feels burning in his breast as he takes her small hand in his to kiss.

“Jon Snow, Jon Targaryen,” he corrects, without taking his eyes from her.

Her hand is trembling slightly in his grip, he is sure of it. If he could but know that she feels the same agonies as he does!

She lifts her fan to cool cheeks that have, if he is not mistaken, flushed pink.

He pulls his shoulders back. He is not some simpering fool, despite his current display, he has fought in the wastelands of the North beyond the Wall, he has journeyed back from near death with nought but a handful of scars to pay.

“May I ask if you were aware of my name when we chanced upon one another earlier tonight, my lady?” he asks, as a passerby nudges him further towards Daenerys and his nose fills with the scent of violets that he had thought belonged to the plants they had stood before, and not to her.

Her hair is a remarkable shade of white, lighter even than his father’s, and her mouth is a perfect pout. He coughs.

“I did not,” she admits. “I was informed upon leaving the Orangery.”

“I see,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, tilting her head in some unspoken meaning.

“Might we return to the Orangery, perchance, my lady,” he says, glancing around, “it is only that I fear we had not yet finished the natural course of our conversation.”

She bites her lip and he feels his body heat. He is far from a fumbling youth but she has inflamed such desires in him that have his mind conjuring all manner of salacious pictures. And yet it is not just that, he also feels such a tenderness for her, such a warmth.

“A capital idea,” she says, and is that a glint of humour in her eyes, is that a smile playing at the corner of her lips?

He holds out his arm for her to take and feels the heat of her beside him like a furnace as he leads her out of the room.

 

It is but two months later, in the very Orangery where they first met, that they give in to their passions, that he jolts forward and kisses her, holding her small waist tightly in his grip as her own hands scrabble at his shoulders and she lifts herself up on her toes to meet him.

 

It is but a week later, that he steals into her rooms and demonstrates for her the things he has learned on his travels, and how a man may kiss a woman in such a way that will bring her to rapture in moments.

 

It was from the very moment they first met, they agree later — as they flee together for Essos from the scandal of their relationship, unwilling to let any man split them asunder — that providence doomed them to love no other but each other.

 

 


	5. The Queen and her Knight (Jon/Elia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: canon-divergent AU, chivalry, forbidden romance, adultery, mentioned Rhaegar/Elia.

 

“You need to stop,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering at the whisper-soft touch of his lips on her hand.

He is kneeling in front of her, eyes dark, golden cloak gleaming in the dark of her shuttered room lit only by the embers of the fire. He took her hand to kiss it in greeting but he hasn’t given it back and she hasn’t taken it back either.

“Why?” he whispers, lips tickling the back of her hand, rough fingers soft on hers.

“Because I have a husband and he is your king.”

“Where is he, your husband?” Ser Jon asks.

“Don’t be cruel,” she whispers.

His eyes flash, his thumb strokes up her wrist - and how is it that this touch of his inflames her more than Rhaegar’s ever did? “It’s he that is cruel, to leave his ladylove alone, to besmirch your honour.”

She takes her hand back and turns towards the windows, catching sight of her flustered reflection. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, her voice weak.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, and she turns back to see him still kneeling in place. He’s so young, Ser Jon, so earnest, and each day in court she can feel his eyes on her like burning coals. “It's what I want to give you.”

“What can you give me that I do not already have? I am a queen,” she says, drawing herself up, hand sweeping out to encompass the keep, the Seven Kingdoms, the jewels and gold and silks.

“Aye,” he says, “but your husband does not love you.”

She slaps him then, surprising herself, but not him, for he takes it without complaint and she makes a choked noise, horrified with herself. “Forgive me,” she says, holding her hand over the pink mark on his cheek as if to hide it.

“Always,” he says, turning his head in her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. His cheeks are rough with stubble, so unlike the smooth skin of her husband.

“That’s what you want from me then, to be hurt, to be chastised?”

He shrugs. “If that is what you want.”

“It is not,” she says, snatching her hand back.

“I would love you if you let me,” he says softly, reaching out to hold her hips as she trembles in his careful grip but does not push him away. It’s been so long since she was held, since she was touched, and the court all know why Rhaegar is paying a visit to Highgarden, why the pretty daughters of noble families flock to King's Landing.

He presses his face to her belly, making her gasp, making something inside of her clench. He tilts his head up, his curls wild around his face. “Please,” he says.

Four moons ago, during the court’s visit to Dragonstone, she saw Jon cut down a lunatic who charged at king and queen with a knife, saw Jon near slice him in two without blinking. She sees him on the training field, brutal and swift, fearsome in his caged fury. It was his might on the battlefield that made Rhaegar knight him, a northern bastard boy, that made him offer Jon a place in the Kingsguard, but here he is, kneeling, soft, gentle, and it makes her ache, makes her want. Rhaegar is not cruel when they are together, he’s never hurt her, nor ignored her pleasure, but he is not tender like she knows Jon would be, worshipful.

“Please,” he says again, face beseeching as his hands slide around her hips.

Unbidden, her own hand strokes through his hair, and then she feels the press of his kiss against her belly, the heat of his open mouth through the silks of the gauzy Dornish robe she likes to wear in her private chambers.

It’s late, the keep is asleep, bar the guards who man the walls, the gates, bar Jon who is supposed to be guarding her door, not kneeling in front of her with his hot eyes and warm hands, with his mouth that is kissing the silks above her cunt as she grasps his hair tightly in her fist, as she bites her lip on a moan.

 _You’re young_ , she had said to Jon the first time she met him, sitting before him in her solar to take his measure, to greet this new Kingsguard who would be responsible for her and her family’s safety, _your mother must be sad for you to leave her so soon_.

 _I have no mother_ , he had replied, and she had felt a pang of pity for him. No mother, and now no wife nor sons.

“Will you let me?” Jon asks now, as he presses her back against the wall, as she clutches a hand in the tapestry behind her.

His hands are smoothing up her legs underneath her skirts and she should be pushing him away, she should be ordering him to leave her and barring the door, she should not be gasping, “ _yes_ ,” nodding as his fingers stroke up her thighs.

“I’m good at this,” he says solemnly, his eyes dark, “you’ll see,” and he smiles and ducks his head between her thighs as she gasps and feels a flare of jealousy at the women who have had him before, a possessive hum that frightens her. He cannot belong to her, she thinks hazily as those sinful lips of his work her, as he laves her with his tongue, for he already belongs to her husband. But, oh, she thinks, as whimpers escape from her mouth, as Jon whispers her name and holds her up against the wall, why can’t he, why can’t she have him, one knight against everything else Rhaegar owns, including her, one thing just for herself.

When he is done, when she is panting and overcome, he sits back on his heels and helps rearrange her stockings and skirts. His lips are bruised, his face is flushed, and yet he asks for nothing for himself. Is this the true meaning of chivalry, she thinks woozily, a laugh trapped in her throat.

“Stand,” she tells him and he does, movements fluid despite the ache he must feel in his knees.

He is not a tall man but he is taller than her, far broader than her slight frame. She tips up on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek as she feels him tremble. A woman could get drunk on this kind of power, she thinks, and then turns his head to kiss him full on the mouth, not wishing to be the kind of person who would tease, who would take what she wished and give nothing back.

His arms come around her back, his mouth is hot and eager on hers and when she presses against him she can feel how hard he is. She can’t lay with him, she can’t ever risk a bastard babe.

“I must return to my duties,” he says, gentling the kiss.

“Yes,” she says, flustered, and steps back.

“My Queen,” he says, with a bow, and though she searches his face for mockery, for some dark pleasure, she sees only devotion, solemn sincerity.

“Ser Jon.”

“Good night,” he says, as he slips from the room and closes the door softly behind him.

She stares at it, the carved door, thinking of him standing there outside all night, his mouth rich with the taste of her, his thoughts fixed on her.

How is she supposed to sleep now, knowing there is only a door between them, knowing that he is right there, waiting for her?

 

 


	6. A killer and a thief (Oberyn/Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: canon divergent au, murder, rescue, arranged marriage, background Oberyn/Ellaria.

 

“Whose blood is that?” Prince Oberyn asks tightly, his hands on her shoulders stopping her from running away. She was fleeing from the Red Keep's rose garden when he caught her and now her legs are shaking so hard she fear she may collapse.

She shakes her head and folds her lips together but a noise still escapes, a panicked, animal noise.

“Sansa, whose is it?” he asks, his eyes piercing, his body taut. “Is it yours?” One of his hands moves her hair – which has already been tugged by far crueller hands out of its pins – to the side and he sucks in a harsh breath. “Who made these bruises?” he asks as she quivers, as he looks around sharply.

Her chest, her hands, are soaked with blood and now she can smell it and now she fears she might vomit from the shock and horror of what she has done.

She has been taking tea with Prince Oberyn and his paramour for three weeks now, he has been trying to take her into his confidence, trying to persuade her that she can trust him, that he wishes to help her. But he cannot help her now, no one can.

A muffled groan sounds from the garden behind them and Oberyn leaves her there, swaying, grasping onto a hedge for balance, as he passes through the archway she has just left.

It is only a moment before he returns. “The boy king is dead,” he says to her and she sobs before he covers her mouth with a warm hand. “Hush,” he says, “you must not be found like this.”

His eyes are flicking from side to side, she can see him thinking. “We shall wash you in the fountains first,” he says and pulls her by the hand through a dark colonnade to the old pond thick with algae where water gurgles out of the mouths of bronze frogs.

“Quick,” he says as she clambers inside, teeth chattering, and begins to wash herself haltingly. “Forgive me,” he says then, “there is no time,” and he leans over, rubbing his hands down her bare arms, plucking her gown away from her chest to soak it, to scrub away the blood. “The green of the algae will hide the blood in the water,” he murmurs, as his hands work through her blood-soaked hair.

Every third breath or so, she remembers what she has done, she remembers the feeling of the knife in her hands, of the blood spurting out of him, of his shocked face, of the dark glee she felt, and then the horror like a gaping hole she is still falling down.

“What have I done,” she gasps.

“You did what you must,” he says. “As we all do. Now,” he says, helping her out of the ponds, wrapping his cloak around her shivering form, “you need to hide.” He hurries her to the space where a forgotten statue meets a thick hedge and pushes her inside as the leaves and branches catch on her hair and clothes. “Wait here,” he says, “I will come for you, I swear it,” and then he is gone and she covers her face with her hands and whimpers and tries not to cry.

Endless moments later she hears a scuffle nearby in the gardens, a groan and then a murmuring voice. She waits and then there are footsteps striding towards her and then she cries out as Prince Oberyn lifts her into his arms and carries her quickly away.

“What has happened?” she asks, her teeth chattering, clutching her arms around his neck and praying to every god she knows that he will never set her down, that he will, by some impossible means, save her from the punishment that awaits her.

“I have given your knife to a member of the Kingsguard,” he murmurs, “and poisoned him with a potion that will make him lose his wits. It is he who will be blamed for killing the king.”

She shuts her eyes tightly and hides her face in his shoulder as they hurry past the gardens, as he ducks behind a bush into a damp hollow and then a tunnel, as he races through and out into the city.

Her mind feels untethered, her body is tight like a bowstring, waiting to hear the shouts of the guards chasing after them as they pass through dark city streets and around corners until he comes to a shadowed door and knocks upon it.

They enter a house that smells of incense and rich perfumes, that smells of Prince Oberyn and his paramour, of Dornish spices, and he barks quick orders to the men that come running, as her head starts to spin.

“Forgive me,” he is saying to her as he sets her down on a couch in a room draped with silks and lit by flickering oil lamps.

“For what?” she asks, teeth still chattering.

He strokes wet hair from her face and leans over her where she lays.

“I could not risk returning you to the Red Keep,” he says, “for fear of being seen, of the blood underneath your fingernails,” he says, as he takes her hands. “I have tied you to me now, I have given you no choice."

"You have saved me," she whispers tearfully.

He shakes his head, his eyes are mournful. "Sansa, I have stolen you, your honour is besmirched, they will say that you seduced me, that you are a Dornishman's whore–"

"I am a traitor already," she says, voice wobbling, "a murderer. What does it matter if I am called a whore."

"We shall marry on the morrow," he continues. "I will tell Lord Tywin that I have taken you for my paramour and he will demand that I wed you, a punishment for the both of us, and he will tell me that you are never to be allowed further north than the Red Mountains, that the terms of this marriage forbid you from ever returning home."

"What home is there left for me?" she asks, tears sliding down her cheeks. But they are also tears of relief, she thinks, of hope.

"Dorne shall be your home, my lady," he says kindly, sadly, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

"But _Ellaria_ ," she says with a shivering start, trying to sit up. "Oh, you _cannot_ marry me, you must marry her."

"Hush now," he says, as his paramour enters the room carrying a bundle of clothes, as Sansa cries out and shuts her eyes tightly.

"I would not wed him if he begged me to," Ellaria says and Oberyn lets out a tired snort. "A prince needs to wed a noble lady, even in Dorne," she adds, "and I am not a jealous woman. There is room enough for the both of us, is there not?"

"Yes," Sansa says, nodding feverishly, "yes, of course, I'm sorry," she says, opening her eyes to look at Ellaria. "I shall ask for nothing, I shall be good, I swear it," she begs.

Ellaria clucks her tongue as Oberyn mutters something. "You are good, I know this, Sansa. Good enough," she says, as she helps her to sit up and untangle the cloak around her, "to give your betrothed the most wonderful of gifts."

"Ellaria," Oberyn says sharply.

"There is no love for the Lannisters in this room," she says mildly. "Besides, it is only right that the Red Viper have a wife who is equally fierce with a blade."

"Ellaria, please," he says as Sansa lets out a startled, hysterical laugh.

"You see," Ellaria says, raising an eyebrow, "not all of us lack good humour."

"My love," Oberyn says with exasperated fondness and kisses her atop her head. "Let us save this talk until we are far from here, until we are home," he adds, and as he leaves the room, as Ellaria lifts up Sansa's arms to help her peel off her sodden shift, Sansa thinks of that word, home, and the way his voice sounded when he said it, and she clings to it against the maelstrom of thoughts roaring inside her head.

 

 


	7. The King and his man (Jon/Satin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: canon divergent au, bedwarming

 

“Your feet are cold, Lord Commander,” Satin murmurs sleepily, head lolling back.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t steal my bed for your own,” Jon says, burrowing deeper under the covers, shifting closer to his illicit bedwarmer.

“You’re supposed to correct me,” Satin says, “I’m supposed to call you, Your Grace, now.” He presses a kiss to Jon’s chin, his eyes half-lidded.

“I don’t care what you call me,” Jon says tiredly, gripping him lazily by his curls, making him tremble. He’s so easy to move, Satin, his body so quick to respond. But does he know how easy Jon is for him, he wonders, how he stays awake once Satin is worn out and dozing, only to look at the fan of his eyelashes, long as a girl’s on his flushed cheeks, to hear his breath whistle, to feel a warm fondness deep in his gut - or his heart, but he is not supposed to give his heart away to a lowborn man who serves him, he is supposed to save his heart for his ladylove, whoever she may be, whoever his council decides he should marry now to secure the North.

“Really?” Satin delights, rolling on top of Jon, the warmth of his limbs making him gust a pleased sigh. “So I may call you anything?”

“Within reason,” Jon says as Satin bends to kiss him, to lick at his mouth as Jon’s hands smooth down his back to clutch at his backside.

“You didn’t say that,” Satin says, sliding a hand down between them, gripping Jon’s cock and making him groan.

“I spend the day listening to wordplay, I’ve no desire to hear it in the bedchamber as well.”

“Spoilsport,” Satin says as Jon feels his toes curl, as his back bows. “You can call me anything you like too, you know,” he says, sipping kisses from Jon’s mouth as he grinds them together. “You can call me your boy, your whore-”

“No,” Jon says and pushes his hands away, heaving him onto his back. He pants as he looks down at Satin, at his red mouth and dark eyes. He dips his head to follow the flush on his chest with his mouth, kissing and then biting, using his hand to strip the other man’s cock tightly, to make him writhe underneath him.

“You can call me yours,” Satin whispers later, once the sheets are mussed and Jon is wearier than he was when he slipped inside them, but more content too, the frustrations of the day forgotten, his body languid and warm.

“Mine,” Jon murmurs, rubbing his nose across the back of Satin’s neck. “Aye.”

 

 


	8. A chance meeting (Stannis/Daenerys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: modern au, meet-cute, banter.

 

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he grits out, sounding like it pains him to say it, sounding baffled.

“I see,” she says carefully, feeling her cheeks warm as she stares at her startled reflection, pressing the phone closer to her ear to hear his awkward cough.

Last week, when fleeing from a hailstorm, she had slipped into the kind of bar she tried to avoid - staid, boring, full of tiresome old men in bland business suits drinking a single whiskey before they returned to their hotel bedrooms, or, worse, leering old men who thought that because she was young and pretty she welcomed their creepy attempts to chat her up - and found herself sitting next to Stannis Baratheon, whose company had made a predatory takeover of Targaryen Industries around the time she was born.

Somehow, they had started to talk. He had been awkward, almost rude, brusque, bitter, and darkly funny in a way that intrigued her. She had been combative, and most definitely rude, accusing him of destroying her family, of being heartless and mercenary, of _lacking a soul_.

Somehow, they had stayed there for hours, nursing a bottle of whiskey, and somehow, she had let him have his driver take her home, as Stannis sat next to her in the quiet of the car, the space between them humming with a tension she did not want to name.

And when they said goodbye, he had jerked as if moving to embrace her, but held out his hand instead, and she had shook it solemnly and then tripped inside, palm tingling, mind whirling.

In the morning, she had told herself it was the whiskey. That, or the months-long drought in her sex life. He wasn’t ugly, Stannis; he was tall, if you liked that sort of thing, and in good shape for a man his age. He wasn’t a creep, he was just difficult, odd.

“I should go,” the man in question says on the phone, interrupting her meandering thoughts.

“Yes,” she says automatically, “no, wait,” she says. “What do you mean?”

He grunts. “You know what I mean. This is ridiculous,” he mutters and she knows that the second part was aimed at himself.

“Are you asking me on a date?” she says, annoyed that her voice sounds ever so slightly breathless.

“Yes, no, I’m asking you to dinner,” he says and then she hears a quiet “ _fuck_ ” and tries not to laugh as she imagines him looking flustered and annoyed with himself, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

“I’d love to,” she says.

“Good,” he says curtly. “Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she says, breathing a laugh, feeling a fizz in her belly, “I do like a man who doesn’t beat around the bush, tomorrow will be fine.”

“Don’t mock me, Daenerys,” he says in that baritone of his, with a wry weariness that makes her bite her lip.

“I did nothing of the sort.” He scoffs and she smiles at her reflection. “Eight o’clock? Is that too late for an old-timer like yourself?”

“You’re barely out of your teens,” he says, with a horrified note, “if anyone needs the sleep, it’s you.”

“I want to make some joke about hoping there won’t actually be much _sleeping_ tomorrow night, but I know us youths have a racy sense of humour compared to the older generation.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve dated, it’s true," he says, his voice gravelly, "but I do believe the old tenets still stand, that it’s lady’s choice as to the activities involved in a date.”

“That's good,” she says, feeling more than a little warm.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, at eight o’clock _sharp_ ,” he says, confident now, “and I should warn you that I cannot abide lateness, so make sure you’re ready at the door.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies mockingly, feeling her toes curl into the carpet, her mind spin ahead to all sorts of interesting scenarios involving rules and rule-breaking and some gentle chastisement...

He barks a laugh. “I’m not in the army anymore, call me Stannis.”

“Until tomorrow, _Stannis_ ,” she says.

“ _Daenerys_ ,” he says in farewell and hangs up.

“A date with Stannis Baratheon,” she says out loud to her empty flat. “Right, this isn’t weird at all,” and then hurries to her wardrobe to find something suitable to wear. She’s going to dazzle him with one of her mini-dresses, with her sky-high heels, and he isn’t going to know what to do with himself, it’s going to be glorious, she thinks.

But, as it turns out, although he might well be dazzled by her, it’s her that’s flustered and out of her depth when he picks her up wearing black tie and drives her to the ballet in his rumbling sportscar, and then whisks her to a private box and divests her of her fake fur coat with careful hands and proceeds to spend the first act of the ballet murmuring his low opinion of both the performance and the state of the opera house renovations, his mouth so close to her ear that it tickles, that she starts to tremble, and by the time the lights go dark for the second act she’s had enough and clambers into his seat to kiss him, unable to wait for an hour longer, trying to stop herself from moaning as his hungry lips work against hers, as he holds her firmly by the nape of her neck with one hand and gropes her bottom with the other.

 

 


	9. A man and his bodyguard (Jaime/Brienne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: modern au, bodyguard au, banter, love confessions.

 

“I think I’m in love,” he drawls as she comes stomping into his hotel room wearing a sparkly ankle-length dress and heavy boots that don’t match the look at all.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a fan of this _outfit_ either,” she says furiously, “but your father insisted.”

She huffs a breath that disturbs a curling lock of hair that some poor fool has pinned back with a sparkly pin and he tries not to laugh - best not to piss your bodyguard off _completely_ , he’s learned.

“I have to ask, is there a gun hiding somewhere under there?” he says, circling around her before she shoves him into the wall with a hand on his chest, and now it’s his turn to huff, his breath gusting out. Is it _necessary_ for her to be so violent with him, _really_? “Forgive me for asking,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “I just like to make sure that my bodyguard is suitably equipped for the job.”

“She is,” she all but snarls.

“Well that’s good,” he says with a shrug.

“Good,” she says, and then readjusts her dress as he hides a laugh with a cough.

Later, after she shoots the man attempting to assassinate him before bundling Jaime into a getaway car, he thinks dazedly about the moment she had whipped the gun out of her thigh holster and the flash of creamy skin he saw, the strength of her legs. It’s just the shock, he tells himself the next morning, life and death situations tend to bring up all sorts of odd feelings, that’s all.

 

*

 

“I think I’m love,” he teases when he finally gets the door of her hotel room open and finds her sitting in bed surrounded by a pile of tissues and with a vomit-filled bucket on the floor beside her.

“Jaime,” she groans, “fuck off.”

“Now is that anyway to treat your rescuer, hmm?” he says, holding up the tray he's brought with tea and chocolate and other such things he likes to have when he’s ill.

“I can’t eat that,” she says wearily, nodding to the chocolate, “I’ll only puke it up.” Her hair is all tufted up like a baby bird, her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are flushed. She looks young, vulnerable in a way she never does and it makes him feel...tender towards her.

“Well, it’s a good thing that this isn’t all I've brought. Come in,” he calls over his shoulder as the Lannister’s private doctor wheels in with an IV drip and an honest-to-god doctor’s bag. “You see,” Jaime tells Brienne who looks surprised, “I’m not entirely useless.”

“I suppose not,” she says weakly as the doctor fusses over her and Jaime takes a seat opposite the bed. He’s pleased to have proved her wrong, and that’s the only reason why he feels a warm satisfaction now, why he wants to linger in this room that smells of vomit and sickness and make sure she gets some actual rest. A bodyguard who can’t guard is useless to him, after all, and he doesn’t want his father to replace her, it would just be a hassle after they’ve gotten to know one another so well.

 

*

 

“I think I’m in love,” he whispers haltingly in the dark of the bedroom, his arm wrapped around her waist, his nose tickled by the hair curling on the nape of her neck and his head resting on a pillow that smells of both of them.

He’s ninety percent sure that she’s asleep and that’s the only reason he’s saying it now. It’s only three weeks into their relationship and you can’t tell someone you love them that soon, it would be weird, and besides, he might not actually mean it, what does he know about love, _really_. It’s probably just hormones, just surprisingly good sex and the fact that he now inexplicably finds her jokes funny and hates to be apart from her for more than a few hours. It’s just an infatuation, or a passing mood, or perhaps he’s going down with something.

“Me too,” she says sleepily and he freezes, heart kicking in his chest.

“What?” he whispers quickly.

She groans and shifts around to face him. “You’re ridiculous, Jaime, do you know that?"

 _I’m_ ridiculous, he thinks, _me_?

“But I do love you,” she says easily, like it isn’t the strangest thing for the two of them to be here now together like this. “God knows why.”

“Me too,” he says with a smile and she scoffs.

“Next time, save the emotional conversations for the morning please, some of us actually need to work tomorrow,” she says wearily and he jolts forward to kiss her and now neither of them are going to get to sleep for hours yet but she’s certainly not complaining, he thinks, as he gets his hands on those glorious thighs of hers and mouths a possessive mark on her neck.

 

 


	10. An outlaw and his prize (Jon/Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: Western AU, rescue, bickering.
> 
> [NB: I've not done a lick of research for this story, so excuse my attempt at western diction!]

 

 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” she says, scathingly, her voice poised as ever even though he remembers the fear in her eyes when he burst in through the window of the room where Baelish was keeping her, even though her fingers clutch tightly to his coat where she sits sidesaddle on the horse before him.

“I reckon I do,” he says mildly, tugging her further towards him with his arm so she doesn’t slip off in that ridiculous dress of hers.

There had been no time for her to remove her petticoats and all such other things that women wear under their skirts that make it darn near impossible to ride a horse the way god intended. Maybe Jon likes to have her here in his arms before him where he can keep a proper eye on her, maybe there’s that. It had been four long months before he found out where Baelish was keeping her, hiding her in the top room of his high-class brothel, changing her name and dying her hair some godawful color.

He was fixing to marry her, Jon had found out, was waiting for her to come of age, waiting for her, she told him, to say yes and mean it. _He wanted me to love him_ , Sansa had said, not long after they had left the Vale behind them in a cloud of dust, _he told me he would be everything to me, my father and my lover and my husband_ , and Jon had grit his teeth something fierce, had felt his hand twitch towards his pistol as if the man stood in front of him on the road, as if he could fire a bullet through his neck and see the blood gurgle out.

“He’ll send every one of his men after you,” she says as the horse makes its steady path down through the deserted valley.

“After you too,” he says.

“I don’t care about me,” she says with a snort, with a carelessness that he doesn’t believe. “He’ll kill you, Jon,” she says, turning round to look at him, the moon shining off those big eyes of hers.

“He’s gotta find me first. And he won’t.”

“You’ve learned how to become invisible then? Know a good witch?”

“I might do,” he says mildly, hand flexing on her tiny waist.

She laughs, a bitter sound that he wishes she didn’t know how to make.

“He hurt you?” he murmurs then, feeling loose strands of her hair tickle his neck.

“No.”

“He try to?”

“He kissed me some,” she says in a small voice.

“I’ll kill him,” he swears and the fierceness of his voice makes the horse speed into a gallop as she clutches her arms around his neck and Jon holds her tightly, feeling the night winds whip past them.

When they reach the rocks with the hollow he found while ranging for the Night’s Watch, he helps her down from the horse, getting an armful of sweet-smelling girl for his troubles, getting the both of them tangled up with her petticoats.

“That dress’ll have to go,” he says once she’s pushed away from him and brushed down her skirts with a huff.

She gets his blood up, Sansa, she always has, ever since the first hairs sprouted on his chin and he came in from a day working her daddy’s fields to see her pouring tea in the parlour in a new white dress, her hair swinging in a curtain down to her waist and with a shy smile for him over her shoulder and then a cross cluck of her tongue when she saw the tracks of his dusty boots on the floor. And now that she’s older, now that she’s a real beauty, a woman, his mind is springing all sorts of improper thoughts. And don’t that make him as bad as Baelish, lusting after her? he thinks, as he turns away from her and builds them a fire.

“What am I supposed to wear then,” she asks, “your breeches?”

“Unless you fancy weaving your own from grass, I reckon you’ll have to.”

She huffs. “No, thank you, I’ll sew something out of my skirts, I’m not entirely useless, you know, Jon.”

“I didn’t think you were,” he says, sitting back on his heels.

“Well, most people do. They think I’m just a pretty bird,” she says crossly, sitting down on a log and wrapping her arms around her shoulders.

"We’re wolves, ain’t we,” he says, “that’s what your daddy used to say.”

“Wolves without a pack,” she says sadly.

“We got each other, don’t we?” he says as the flame begins to take and he shifts the wood around it.

“ _Haven’t we_ ,” she corrects him. “I don’t know what company you’ve kept, Jon, but it sounds like you’ve never had a lesson in your life.”

“I sound common, you mean,” he says, strangely delighted by her scorn.

She sniffs.

“Not sure a woman who was found residing in a brothel can rightly hold on to her airs and graces, darling.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she exclaims, throwing up her hands as he chuckles.

It’s quiet for the next little while, while he makes a stew on the fire and stares at the flames, his mind spinning plans for the next day and the day after that.

“Thank you, Jon, for coming to get me,” she says softly.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he says. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.”

“I didn’t think anyone was coming,” she says and he hears a tremble in her voice that has him moving to her side and taking her hand.

“I would have got there sooner if I could,” he says again, thumb brushing the back of her soft hand, a lady’s hand made for ladylike endeavors, not for the tough life that might lay before them now. Maybe he was selfish to come and find her and steal her away from the wealth Baelish promised, from the comfort she deserved. Her daddy would kill him for turning her into an outlaw, but her daddy was dead.

“I know,” she says, her face solemn in the firelight. “You’re a good man, Jon Snow,” she declares and kisses his cheek, making his breath catch like he’s a boy again and has never been kissed before.

“Right,” he says, with a cough, “got to feed you up for the journey, we’ve got a long road ahead of us,” he adds, returning to the fire and fussing with the pot.

“So you do know where we’re heading, I was beginning to think you were making it up as we went along.”

“I do, yes,” he says with a tilt of his head, thinking of the little abandoned cabin far from here, the one with the view over the prairies and the neat little windows, the vegetable patch out back and the barn that’ll be good as new when he’s about done with it; the cabin where they can hide from everyone who sought to find them and hurt them, where they can start anew, where she can be safe again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed these, I'd love to hear from you! :)
> 
> and there's rebloggable links to the individual drabbles on my [tumblr](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)


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